You stop breathing for a moment when you see what is inside the envelope.
Not because it is money, though there is money too, folded carefully and wrapped in a second sheet of wax paper as if whoever packed it feared dust, rain, and bad luck in equal measure. And not because of the documents, though the stamped papers beneath the cash are thick enough to feel important before you read a single word. You stop breathing because on top of everything rests a single photograph, slightly faded at the corners, and in it you see yourself.
You.
Standing in the courtyard of that same house in Guadalajara three years earlier, smiling faintly while watering Don Ernesto’s cactus pots in the morning sun. You had forgotten the photograph existed. You never even knew anyone took it. Your hair was tied back loosely. You wore one of your plain cotton dresses, the yellow one from Oaxaca that your mother said made your skin look warm even when you were tired. In the photo, you looked peaceful.
Loved, almost.
That is what undoes you.
Because no one else in that house had ever looked at you with enough tenderness to preserve a version of you like that.
Your hands shake harder as you set the photograph against the wall of the alley and pull out the next item.
A folded letter.
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